


Pigeons and Pearls

by GloriaMundi



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: Art, C19, Community: kink_bingo, Furry, Historical, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-30
Updated: 2009-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"... he must, it's clear, have Ulysses flushed and gasping at the mast, eager and avid for the gloss of wings, the warm wet kisses, the dusty smell of ruffled feathers".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pigeons and Pearls

The cords that hold Ulysses to the mast (actually a coat-stand) have slackened where the model has strained against them. The fellow has impressive musculature: the artist finds himself inclined to return to his sketchbook, capture the flex of tendon and bone beneath that olive Italian skin, pay the man for another week's modelling. But the Sirens' call is stronger.

"Remember, your ship is under attack," he instructs. "You're staring up at the Sirens. There are seven of them." There are always seven. "Seven Sirens, circling your ship, staring down at you. (I suggest, sir, that you fix your gaze upon the lampshade as an approximation.) They are beautiful women, very beautiful, and their song is bewitching. But if you break your bonds — if you let them take you — it will mean your death, and the death of all who sail with you."

The man looks confused. How good is his English? He sells ice-cream in Hyde Park on sunny Sundays. A strawberry ice; three ha'penny cones; the artist gives him two shillings an hour, in rainy September, for his still silence. At least he's cheaper than Colorossi.

The artist rests his brush on his palette: Viridian, Chinese White, Tyrian Purple. There's a long black feather, a pinion pinned for reference on the easel before him, a smear of Prussian Blue gumming and striping the barbs. "Beautiful women, sir! And they sing more sweetly than one can imagine. And they fly, they have wings. Like ... like pigeons."

"Pigeons?" says the ice-cream seller.

"Their wings ... have you seen the shimmer of a pigeon's wings in the autumn sunlight? Can you imagine the feel of those feathers, the silky slide of them, against your skin as you embrace a Siren? Beneath those feathers they hide their, their womanly charms. A firm," the artist swallows, "a firm breast." Best not to mention the anatomical issues. A wingéd woman would have a breastbone like a keel. "And lower, where the feathers are small and curled, just so, like ... Well." He stares at the intricate ridge-and-hook of the quill before him. "Think of the way a bird's feathers feel under your hand: smooth and slick if you stroke her the right way, rough and rugged if you stroke against the grain. Just like any other woman, eh, sir?"

It's clear from the fellow's expression that he comprehends no more than one word in three. In ten. Emboldened, the artist lets himself wax lyrical. Words are not his métier, he's (thank heavens) no poet: yet there's a slick quick pleasure in words that can't be found between paintbrush and palette, a pleasure too swift and ephemeral to commit to canvas.

There'll be no sign of his words afterwards . Nothing to show ... nothing to give him away. Nothing to say that the author of this work dreams of pleasures forbidden to men. That the man who brought this scene to brilliant life — brilliantly hued, at least — would eagerly submit himself to any Siren's wile, even if her song was silenced, as long as she took him up and carried him away to her secret snarly nests.

"And in their hands — you fancy you see a Siren there on the side of your ship, her hand cupped at her breast — in her hands are pearls. The, er, the _tears_. Yes. The tears of drowned sailors. Or some other _bodily_ offering, haha!"

Behind the welcome concealment of the easel, the artist adjusts himself. His smock keeps him decent, but his own flight of fancy is making him ache. Not that it matters if the ice-cream seller sees more than he should. Who would he tell? And who would take the word of a penniless Italian over that of an Academician?

Besides, there's a different fall of light and shadow, a swell and twitch beneath the grubby folds of the fellow's tunic. Perhaps his English is better than one might expect. Or perhaps this is beyond, beneath language: some longing — no, some lust — common to all men.

Emboldened, reckless: like Ulysses, the artist casts caution to the winds.

"Those are pearls that were ..." No. "Imagine you see pearls there, shimmering wet and precious in her hand. Her song, sir, is beguiling, and full of promises. Promises of what she'll do to you when you break free of the ropes and let her sweep you away. No decent woman would do half of what a Siren might, sir. They are temptation incarnate."

He's painting again, brush slapping the canvas, paint richly thick, trying to catch that look of longing there before him, layering colour to capture cord over skin over muscle. "And no decent woman is feathered so, above and below, long pinions to slide across your skin, downy ruffles to tickle your thighs, a woman's mouth to make you spill and spend and pay in pearls, a ... ah ..."

He flings the brush down. His skin is hammering with blood: he must, it's clear, have Ulysses flushed and gasping at the mast, eager and avid for the gloss of wings, the warm wet kisses, the dusty smell of ruffled feathers. He tugs the pinned feather free, to see how the quill flexes when it's bent, and just the slippery slide — like hair, like a girl's unbound hair — across the blue vein of his wrist is enough to tip him over.

As soon as it's begun it's done. This luminous moment won't last, the rictus of the Italian's mouth, the way he almost topples the coatstand as he strains towards what isn't there. Time later to wash himself, to pay the man, to send him away. The artist's brushstrokes are quick and certain, and if the feather caresses his bare skin as he moves — why, it's incidental, accident, inspiration. Nothing more.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> [J W Waterhouse's 'Ulysses and the Sirens' on WikiCommons](http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:John_William_Waterhouse_-_Ulysses_and_the_Sirens_%281891%29.jpg)


End file.
